Momma would dust the venetian blinds
every Saturday morning
open and close them
with a pull of the cord
watching the world blink
appear, disappear and change
reappearing the same yet slightly different.
Now cranes appear through open blinds
unafraid messengers of a sort
spying from their perch, all stilt and neck;
do they despise us or think we are ugly
thick of leg and round of head
unable to dance?
I have left the city
where people cannot love themselves
to live among the cranes
promenading quietly passed blinded windows
treating me indifferently
as I revel in the accomplishments of quiet.